


Alright

by Kalya_Lee



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-12
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-25 05:06:49
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/635426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalya_Lee/pseuds/Kalya_Lee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“It’s not your fault, you know,” John says, one day, insistent, almost pleading.  “It’s not. It  isn’t.”</p>
<p>“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock snaps, and to John it sounds like he’s saying, of course it is.</p>
<p>Written for a prompt on the Sherlock Kink Meme.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alright

There is a man standing in front of the door when John wakes up. It’s not Mycroft. John knows enough to be rather disappointed.

“Hello, sexy,” says the man, his eyes wide and manic, his grin slightly predatory, his voice distinctly _not_ female or crying.

“Moriarty,” John grits out, and it’s not very clever, but he’s still heavily sedated, and what more is there to say, really?

The man’s grin goes wider, his eyes soften into something resembling sympathy, but the empty darkness behind his irises, and the Semtex vest he has hidden rather badly in the corner of the room, make this somewhat hard to buy. “Oh, call me Jim. Everyone does,” he coos, and suddenly there are fingers in John’s _clothes_ , and stupid useless words like _don’t touch there_ and _get off me, damn you_ are on the tip of his tongue and he wishes he could say them, and damn it, John doesn’t like to be touched.

But then again, he doesn’t much like being kidnapped, either. Clearly, none of this is about what John likes.

“I can see what he sees in you,” Jim looks gleeful. It would be cute. It _would_ be.

And that’s that, really.

***

His first instinct is to fight, but fighting is hardly an option when you’re dealing with a criminal mastermind who’s got you pinned up against a wall with a bomb in the room. And John may be a crack shot but he doesn’t have a gun and Jim’s got bloody _snipers_ at his disposal. Fighting is an appealing plan, but it goes out the window pretty quickly.

Pretending it’s not happening is not an option either, because as good as John is at blocking things out he’s still a _soldier_ , and soldiers, especially sharpshooters, especially doctors, use their senses more than almost anyone. And he can close his eyes but he can’t turn off his combat training, and his ears were trained to hear the whistle of a bullet at two hundred yards, and this _thing_ is so much closer and noisier and somehow more dangerous, more painful. His skin, at least, was conditioned for denial, was meant to be bulletproof, and he should have been able to turn it off and just not _feel_ , but it’s betraying him, it’s never felt more _alive_.

Trying to make a joke out of it is absurd. John gives it a go, mostly _because_ it is absurd, and maybe the absurdity of it might make it feel less real, might make it easier to bear. But no matter what he tries he can’t seem to come up with anything clever, and _is that the best you can do? No wonder Molly dumped your ass_ just isn’t going to cut it.

Pretending that it’s someone else is not going to happen, because he’s never done this with anyone else, at least not _like this_. He doesn’t even have a fantasy to fall back on because whatever everyone else might say about him and Sherlock he’s _straight_ , damn it, and he’s never done this, he’s never dreamt of it or hoped for it or wanted to, and after this he never will. This realization hits with a feeling of loss, which is ridiculous, but it does.

In the end, he settles for blocking it out with images of Afghanistan, with the war. He thinks about sand and desert grasses, about kneeling behind sandbags and the feel of a rifle in his hands. He thinks about shooting, round after round after round, about the first time he shot a man, about how he did it with no feeling or remorse or so he thought until he found himself back at camp, washing his hands over and over and still feeling blood that he’d never even touched.

He thinks about seeing his friends shot, seeing his enemies explode, seeing his patients bleeding out under his hands as he tried to stop the flow or restart the heart or clear the airways. He thinks about the danger, the adrenaline, the feeling of never being safe and never being ready. The feeling of powerlessness that came with every _whoosh_ of a bullet that whizzed past his ears.

He thinks, _I’ve seen worse, I’ve felt worse, I’ve done worse._ He repeats this like a mantra, with every sear of his flesh or sickening tingle of his skin he thinks of all the men he’s seen die, and he chants this over and over and over until the feeling goes away.

Logically, it is true, he’s been in a war. He _has_ seen worse, felt worse, done worse. But somehow it doesn’t feel true, and no matter how many times he thinks it he still doesn’t believe.

***

There is chlorine in his nose and a bomb strapped to his vest, and he’s almost thankful, because the adrenaline that comes with just standing here helps him to stop _thinking_ , and the laser sights over his liver help him not to quiver when he hears Jim’s voice whispering in his ear.

Sherlock stares at him, mouth open and eyes wide, and he sees a flash of hurt and betrayal, and his heart drops down past his gut and he thinks _no, I’ve lost too much today_.

“What would you like me to make him say next?” John says, and Sherlock relaxes, ever so slightly, and it makes all the difference in the world.

Jim starts making disgusting noises over the earpiece and sod the snipers, he’s not repeating _that_. He doesn’t want to die, not even now, but just listening makes his gut clench and the very thought of saying _those things_ is even more agonizing than his past experience with a bullet. Surprisingly, he is not shot. Jim sighs, over the earpiece, like he’s been disappointed, and John feels ridiculously happy that he’s managed to hurt him, even if it is in the pettiest of ways.

He ends up repeating rubbish that makes him look ridiculous but that’s alright, his dignity is already shot and the rest of him hasn’t been, and these words don’t hurt, not at all. He speaks the rest of his lines with a vague sarcastic tone, because what the hell, he has to say these things but he doesn’t have to _like_ them, and he still has control over his voice and that makes him feel just a little bit more powerful.

Then he’s done, and _he_ is here, and Sherlock is struck dumb for a bit and it all feels so _wrong_ , even more wrong than it already did, because if _Sherlock_ can be dumbfounded then what hope is there, really? He recovers quickly enough, that bloody brilliant man, and John can breathe again, can breathe enough to jump on Jim and tether him to a bomb.

He doesn’t want to die, not even now, but it looks as if only one of them is getting out of here alive and he’ll be damned if it isn’t going to be Sherlock. And, right now, he’d like nothing more than to blow up and take this sick bastard with him.

Then the laser sights move, and John lets go like he’s been burned, because what good will it do to keep hanging on, and the feeling of those deceptively delicate shoulders in his arms makes him want to retch.

Jim gives his warning, throws away state secrets, hands out taunts in his sickening sweet sing-song voice. Then he leaves, and Sherlock rips off John’s jacket, and he goes staggering into a door, too drained to keep from thinking, from collapsing.

“Are you alright?” asks Sherlock, and he rubs his temple with John’s gun and all of a sudden John realizes that he _knows_ , and neither of them know what to do.

“I’m fine,” he replies, because it’s true. He _is_ fine, fine enough not to collapse into more than a half-squat, fine enough to make a feeble joke about darkened pools, fine enough to laugh. Fine enough that when Jim comes back he can stand up and stare him down, look him in the eye long enough to glare.

“I’m fine,” he says again, and it’s true, but he’s not _alright_ , he may never be alright again.

***

There’s a voice from the far end of the pool, and laser sights in his eyes, and Sherlock’s got John’s gun pointed at enough Semtex to bring down the house, and John thinks, _please God let me live_.

And he thinks, _it’s too bad that Sherlock is going to die, too. He deserves better than this._

And he thinks, _it’s too bad we’ll blow up Moriarty, too. It’s too good for him._

And then he hears the first few beats of “Staying Alive”, and Jim looks apologetic, and it’s funny. John doesn’t laugh. Sherlock doesn’t shoot.

The relief hits him like a truck, slamming into him, and it’s all he can do to keep standing once he knows that they’ll make it out of this, the both of them, without so much as a scratch.

Well. _One_ of them will make it out without a scratch.

Still, he can’t help but feel a stab of longing, because for a minute he doesn’t think about Sherlock and about the tragedy of that great brain, that great _man_ , dying this young, this way. He doesn’t think about himself, about Sarah and Harry and Mike and how much he doesn’t want to die, about how much an explosion must hurt, even more than a bullet, and how it’s something he doesn’t ever want to feel.

For a minute all he thinks about is Jim Moriarty, and in his mind he sees that madman blown, flying and falling and crumpling and burning, and the disappointment is ludicrous but it’s almost too much to bear.

***

Later, they are in the hospital, being examined for injuries that aren’t there, and John doesn’t care that he’s in Bart’s or that the starched sheets feel familiar and safe and comforting, and he doesn’t care that the smell of antiseptic in the air chases away the smell of blood and gunpowder and chlorine. He just wants to go home. He just wants to go _back_.

Sherlock won’t look at him. It hurts more than the soreness between his legs or in his head. It hurts more than almost anything.

“Why?” He asks, trying to keep his voice even, calm. It’s just one syllable. It shouldn’t be that hard.

“Hm?” says Sherlock, affecting nonchalance, but for once he can’t fake it well enough to fool anyone.

“Why,” says John, and his voice is _angry_ , and he didn’t even realize he was angry until he heard it. “Why won’t you look at me? What’s so disgusting about my face that you can’t bear to look anywhere near it? Why?”

“Because I _know_!” Sherlock snaps, his voice breaking, and there is more emotion there than John has seen in him in all the months that they have lived together.

“Because I know,” he repeats, softly, gently, sadly. “And if I look at you I’ll _see_ , and I will kill him. I _will_ kill him, slowly and painfully, and I will do it _now_.” He makes a sound in the back of his throat, a low, bitter sound that John realizes was meant to be a laugh. “And that’s the last thing you need, isn’t it, chasing your homicidal flatmate around London with a gun and an orange blanket.”

John laughs, too, because it’s funny, it is. John laughs, but it’s a hollow sound.

“You wouldn’t have to,” he says. “Why would you?”

“John,” Sherlock says, and it’s hurt, and angry, and neither of them have to say anything more.

***

They go home after a few hours. Lestrade looks at Sherlock like he might snap, looks at John like he might break, and sends them home without bothering to take their statements. In Greg’s mind, John knows, catching the madman can wait. He would beg to differ, but he’s too insanely grateful.

Sherlock makes John tea, and it’s badly brewed, but that’s okay. The next day, John leaves London to visit Harry and he tells her nothing but it’s almost healing to be with his sister, even if they don’t get along, and she’s so happy to see him that they hardly bicker at all, and he helps her flush three bottles of vodka and it makes him feel better. Less powerless. Less ashamed.

He goes home, and Sherlock sends him out again to take a case that only just made a six, and he’s tired and exasperated but he goes. He feels useful, and the annoyance is so normal that he loves it, just loves it, and he snaps at Sherlock when he wants to say “thank you” and he feels fine, just _fine_.

***

They meet Irene Adler, and she’s completely _naked_ , and John doesn’t trust her. He doesn’t want to be in her presence any longer than is completely necessary, but he doesn’t want to leave Sherlock alone with her either, and he doesn’t know what to do.

“Brainy is the new sexy,” she says, and the way she says _sexy_ makes John shudder and before he can think he is leaving the room, all but running, presumably to get water and a cloth, but mostly to get the _hell_ out of there.

Irene’s assistant (Kate, was it?) shows him where all the first aid stuff is, and on his way back he understands why he’s so uncomfortable, why he doesn’t trust anyone in this house. _It’s the sex, isn’t it,_ he thinks, bitterly. _Sex as a weapon again. Getting unoriginal, isn’t he._

The irony of it is, this danger is for Sherlock, but John wouldn’t really have _minded_ being attacked by the sex appeal of a pretty naked woman. It feels a little unfair, for a minute. _Unfair_ , he thinks, _what an underreaction._

He laughs, because it’s funny, it is. Kate eyes him warily.

“Are you alright?” she asks, taking a subtle step away.

“Fine.”

Because he _is_ fine, he is. He is _fine._

He wonders if she will ever realize that he never did answer her question.

***

“It’s not your fault, you know,” John says, one day, when they’re between cases watching telly and Sherlock is drinking from John’s mug of tea. Sherlock shoots him a look, his _don’t be ridiculous_ look, but it’s fake, tacked on, and while Sherlock is an actor to rival all others John is no fool. He knows. And Sherlock knows that he knows. And neither of them want to talk about it, but John also knows that both of them have to.

“Well,” Sherlock says, finally, when John’s tea has gone cold. “The _destruction of the kitchen_ , as you so _artistically_ termed it, certainly wasn’t solely _my_ responsibility. I’ve been trying to tell you that for months. Does this mean that you’re going to stop nagging me about it?”

He says this in classic Holmes Deadpan, but there’s a little tremor in his voice, almost unnoticeable. John hears it, though. Sherlock knows that John hears it, obviously. John looks at him. Sherlock looks away.

“It’s not,” John says, insistent, almost pleading. “It  isn’t.”

“Of course it isn’t,” Sherlock snaps, and to John it sounds like he’s saying, _of course it is_. He closes his eyes, leans his head back against the sofa, and he can feel the edge of it tilting, rising, ever so slightly. His eyes snap open. “Where are you going?”

“The tea is cold,” says Sherlock, and he takes the mug and walks away.

**Author's Note:**

> This is the first fic I've ever written, and while I know most budding fanfic writers say this as an excuse for bad writing, I truly hope that this story doesn't need to be excused. I must admit that when I first read the prompt for this I balked a little, but the story in my head kept me up all night and wouldn't let me go, so here it is. Thanks to everyone who reads this, and I hope that it stays with you, too.


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